We All Hated Him
by Wabzal
Summary: An evolution of Sherlock's relationships in life.
1. Mutiny

This isn't a one shot. This part's more like a prologue to a friendless Sherlock.

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><p>All of the light in the room seemed focused on the young Holmes at his desk. A slew of papers decorated his surrounding, flapping about in his earnest search. Newspapers and books fell to the floor with a sweep of his hand. A thud. The crinkling whisk of papers.<p>

Muttering assurances to himself, Mycroft wearily perched his head in his hands. The light shut out behind his eyes and he deflated. The paper was missing. That _glorious quote._ Mycroft hadn't looked at the author's name before he'd photocopied the page.

His research paper felt naked without it.

With a sort of healthful disregard only a stressed student possesses, Mycroft reached out blindly for his plate. Fingertips connected with crumbs. They sank in, pulverizing the bready tidbits.

He opened his eyes and strained against the light. His breathing stopped and he willed his hearing into overdrive. Still. Still. The seconds passed. He held still. Still.

A creak. Finally.

Familiar with every inch of his room, Mycroft surged from his repose and stormed the corner behind his bookshelf placed just so to leave a hidey-hole. Enough room for a small body. A troublemaker.

The shadowed corner held far more secrets than Mycroft expected. A red banner stretched taught from several messily applied tacks along the wall and shelf back. It hung down like a tent, folds pooling around the inky curls of Sherlock's hair. Mycroft's little brother's face appeared, void of emotion. There was just a hint of a mischievous shine in Sherlock's eyes. Beneath his bum the corners of Mycroft's missing article peeked out. Sherlock's lips held a stain of chocolate.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft couldn't muster an accusatory tone. He already knew what Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock let a quiet settle before he divulged his intentions. He dramatically eyed his brother, a hulking figure blocking his only escape. Yes. He must negotiate.

"I stole your booty. You're trespassing in unsanctioned territory."

Pirates. Again. Mycroft let himself sink to his knees, crowding the boy slightly. Sherlock, in response, scrabbled up a conspicuously clean fork and held it menacingly before him. Mycroft noted a tear at the cuff of his shirt. Dirty, broken fingernails. Scuffs on his pants. The fact he is here. Alone.

"Where's the rest of your crew?"

"They mutinied." This Sherlock was too young to completely detach himself from the fact. His voice sounded 'mutinied' out like a tiny chant. Playacting the isolation. Imagining away the reality with a bit of adventure.

This was happening more and more often. Sherlock's limited selection of playmates continued to dwindle. For now, in these spring years, there was no intentional cruelty. Sherlock was off-putting. Too bright, clever, aware. He'd break the cycle of imaginative fallacies with dubiousness. He ached for a real game. More than playmates.

It was easier to pretend he was a bad captain with a worse crew. A crew that didn't meet his expectations. That all the kids were merely seeking their best adventure, tailor fit for them. Sherlock didn't see how all the kids saw the same vision that he himself could not.

So they'd run off, crowned with anachronistic paper hats and illogical ambush strategies. Sherlock regrouped, shipwrecked on an isolated island. An island eerily similar to his own home.

Mycroft rubbed at his brows.

"Oh, mutinied have they? Well, best that's done with now. You're going to need a much fitter group if you're to loot the Duchess's pond." Mycroft didn't miss a beat. Sherlock had taken his silverware and was on a bender for decorative cutlery. Best to keep up the charade. They both knew it was for the best.

So Mycroft rescued his brother from a lonely island and they set course for the Duchess's pond. Mummy was having tea with an old school friend and the flashing beams from their dainty forks beckoned. The two brothers donned mismatched handkerchief masks _with no insignias or labeling of any kind, as that would provide links to any sort of association_ and skulked behind carefully cultivated bushes.

Mycroft let Sherlock lead and devise but pushed his Captain with speculations and advice. Any good first mate ought to. Mummy didn't mind so much the ruckus they caused. Sherlock was enjoying himself.

"This is a nice haul, Captain," Mycroft found himself saying later that day. The bookshelf had been pushed out a little more to allow his larger frame to fit. The two Holmes boys sat knee to knee in their alcove. Sherlock sorted the dinnerware, his face placid.

"If this were real, _this_," Sherlock piped up, face suddenly tight as he gestured to the piles of silver utensils, "we wouldn't be hard up."

Mycroft's eyebrows pulled together, reflecting his puzzled insides.

"We're not hard up."

Sherlock glanced up at him, eyes oscillating through shades of gray and sky. Mycroft's heart seized. Sherlock's eyes dropped, hiding his mind.

"I know." Small voice again.

Mycroft stifled his sigh and plucked a strawberry off his tart, _his own booty_, and pushed it between Sherlock's lips too quickly for protest. Sherlock gasped in surprise and glared up at his brother, keenly aware of his intent. None the less, he enjoyed the morsel.

Sugar broke down across his tongue. Salivary glands worked up. It was such a basic, natural response. A kick of flavor.

Mycroft rustled Sherlock's hair and scooched out of the hide-out. He did have a paper to finish after all. Wordlessly, Sherlock rooted the stolen article from his previous looting and returned it to his brother with a small smile. A silent _thank you_.

The saccharine moment passed between the brothers. Transient, fading like the sweetness of a strawberry.


	2. Noticing

I realize that I'm not writing from Sherlock's perspective. I'm not sure if I will in the later chapters. And this is an original character. Just fleshing out his youth. I forgot to do a disclaimer in the previous chapter.

I do not own any of the Sherlock franchise or its creation. Fan made work, y'all.

I'd really love feedback and thoughts. Thanks so much. :)

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><p>Laurelle couldn't say he never spoke. She'd heard him a few times. He simply appeared so innocuous in the back corner each day of class; it was easy to forget him. Younger than the rest but separated from his peers by more than years. He spent each day with his own silence. Everyone assumed he brooded. She knew differently. Brooding seems so self-involved. As if everything else fell away and only your own life slides under the lens for inspection. No. Sherlock did not brood. We, the world surrounding him, did not fall away. He fell away.<p>

Laurelle would watch him from the other side of class. Her neck uncomfortably craned _just so_ to spy, but never obviously. She knew he knew she watched. Sometimes he'd stare back. But mostly, he watched everything. No, he certainly wasn't brooding. Much too aware. But gosh, he seemed invisible and quite keen on it. Content to go unnoticed. Thinner than he aught to be, appearance dominated by _kind of cute_ fall-in-your-eyes black curls. Yeah. Kind of cute. Kind of invisible.

He fell asleep. His head dropped down onto his desk unbidden. _Plop_. No one noticed. Except for Laurelle. She felt a thread of petty envy tickle her skin. Considering the lesson today, she would prefer to sleep as well.

The classroom emptied. Sherlock remained sleeping, undisturbed. Unnoticed. The simple fact no one noticed this kid boggled her mind. _Look at him. Look at him. LOOK_. For once, for the first time, Laurelle did more than look. She approached.

One step. Two. Funny. She didn't expect to feel wary. Like a bumbling fool approaching a sleeping bear. Couldn't she be the cat pouncing on the mouse, unawares?

"Sherlock," she punctuated with a poke to the shoulder. He jerked awake and peered at her through sleepy eyes. He crinkled his forehead in an unasked question.

"Uhh, time to go home." _Very smooth_. His eyes roved the room, confirming her statement. Sherlock inhaled audibly through his nose for a time then stood and swung his bag across his shoulders in one fluid movement.

"Thank you," he replied flatly and swept out the door.

There was the tiniest puddle of drool on the desk.

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><p>"Sherlock," Laurelle began again. Class had ended. Sherlock yet again remained in his seat, long past the rush had gone. Not asleep this time. Reading the paper. He didn't notice her.<p>

"Sherlock." Bit firmer now. It _was_ the fifth time she'd said his name. He looked up, just a lifting of his gaze. A lazy tweak of an eyebrow. He did not appear amused with her presence. No audible acknowledgment left them staring at one another for a tick before he, bored with her, reverted back to reading the paper.

Laurelle reminded herself why she was bothering talking to this kid. Because she couldn't not notice him, no matter what she tried. She opened her mouth to speak again, tongue sliding forward to her teeth, ready to make her point.

He stood to leave.

She threw her hand out and hooked him around the elbow. _Boney little thing_. He whipped his head around and looked pointedly at the unwarranted connection. Unexpected.

"There's this party Kate is having. A bit down my street," Laurelle gushed, trying to catch his eyes which seemed intent on burning her hand off. Indistinguishable eyes. They met hers, confusion hidden behind a glaze of stoicism. "It's a costume party. I'm...Aurora. I could use a prince."

"I need to go the police station."

"...how does that - wait, why?"

His lips pursed a little as he tugged his arm free, tucking it to his body like a wing. "It is to my understanding that the police overlooked a detail in the Carl Powers case and have drawn an erroneous conclusion." Then he exited the room.

Laurelle, despite being put out, refused to concede to his obvious dismissal.

"Okay. Go to the police station. Come to this party. It's tomorrow."

Sherlock didn't stop walking, but he turned enough to give her a puzzled look. She rolled her eyes and huffed.

"Look, kid, it'll do you some good. Tomorrow night just show up at my door 'round seven. My address is in the directory." And figuring it was to her best advantage, she turned and trooped off in the other direction.

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><p>He wasn't dressed as a prince. She shouldn't have been surprised. He wasn't wearing a costume at all. In fact, he appeared confused as to why exactly he was there. Laurelle knew she didn't check the disappointed frown before it appeared. He saw but didn't understand. <em>He wouldn't.<em>

He wore dark gray trousers and a white button down tight enough to reveal his lean frame. He'd be out of place. _He's always out of place._ With a shrug, Laurelle closed the door behind her and they silently headed towards the trickle of costumed teens filtering in from the streets. Each step shook a little sprinkle of glitter from her hair and their journey left a trail of perfume. Each step and Sherlock seemed to hedge to the side, trying to put a bit of distance between them.

Laurelle cast him sidelong glances. She was just a little taller than him, he not having gone through the throws of puberty. His face was mostly blank, but a twon wrinkle between his brows alerted her to his inner worry. _Bad._

It was bad. The music was loud, the appearances bordering on tawdry. The crowd immediately jostled them into the masses of slightly intoxicated fantasy creatures. Witches, pop-icons, absurd fruits.

"I'm under the impression that it is my duty to acquire you a drink. I assume this is some sort of antiquated chivalrous gesture, yet it appears to be among the accepted and recommended social code," Sherlock spoke into her ear as to be heard above the din.

A moment of perplexity before, "A drink would be wise." _Very wise._

She spent the night drinking, he refilling her cups, and the crowd gyrating. Sherlock's lack of costume went unnoticed, but soon enough he had enough glitter and body paint transferred over to consider him passable.

She'd leave him sometimes. A breathy _be right back_ and off she'd go to jump into a crowd. Sometimes for awhile. She always found him again. Inching into the wall, putting space between himself and the horde. He had acquired a cup, but she imagined he merely held it as to ward off hospitable offers.

He didn't look bored though. Uncomfortable, maybe, but his eyes roved the crowd, narrowing in on people. Staring. Noticing. Switching to a new subject. So Laurelle watched him from the other side of the room. He was so content to notice everything and pass unseen. Ghostlike. Perhaps an overseeing angel.

She crossed to him and took him by that wing-arm of his and guided him to the bathroom. The night seemed to come to a head as she slid her hand around his neck and kissed him. The kiss lacked the smoothness of familiarity and gained the hindrance of alcohol. Sherlock jerked away, a brief instant horrified and then again placid. No. Amazed. His tongue darted out to lick a bit of her fruity gloss from his lower lip, and she _could have died right there._

"I was informed by Ned, our mutual classmate, that you fancy me. I doubt that they have the reasoning skills to determine that on their own, but my presence here does suggest you have some motivation. We are not friends. We have interacted a total of four times, three times being the past two days, including now. I am, however, forced to agree with their deduction considering the advances you just took with me."

Laurelle pulled back, aghast, thought process rerouting. Embarrassment coated her insides sticky.

"Why did you bother to come here, Sherlock," she hissed.

"You had given me the unique opportunity to observe what I...loosely consider my peers. The whole evening has been filed under an experiment of the teenage specimen. A party such as this, including what many at our school consider the higher tier of social hierarchy, provides a curious example of the developing human in a highly pressurized but reasonably safe atmosphere. I spent the better part of the evening pointing out to my classmates individuals whom they'd, statistically, encounter positive and welcomed reactions from. Despite the smells, noise and overwhelmingly insipid conversation, the evening proved to be intere-" his words died in his throat as his head whipped from Laurelle's slap.

He, wide-eyed and confused, searched her red face.

"You should leave, Sherlock," Laurelle said, already regretting the sting in her hands but more so, for having noticed him. "We aren't _specimen._"

She closed her eyes to block him out. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a boy to kiss. He was hardly a boy at all. He slunk around her and left the party. No one mentioned him the next day, despite at least a few passing glances at the Holmes boy.

Laurelle didn't watch him anymore. After a day, she didn't feel him watching her. She stopped noticing him. He faded from her day with the ease of simply turning her head. Out of sight. So easy.

The whole night only lasted in her memory with the fuzzy edges of alcohol. She didn't think of him all year until she was throwing away school papers and found a newspaper clipping. Carl Powers. Had she really cut this out after he mentioned it?

She tossed it in the waste basket.


	3. Tuesday, pt1

I'm trying to work into Sherlock slowly. There will be more drug Sherlock in future. Thank you.

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><p>Micky Smith is very good at one thing; this makes him a bad man. That thing being drug dealing. And being very good at it meaning he had an adequate client base and had not been caught.<p>

Things are going well for Mickey Smith.

Things are apparently not going well for the schoolboy twat across the street.

Mickey lolls on this gloomy London Tuesday, waiting for the rush of drones to flood out from the rich world of learning hidden behind brick and mortar. Nothing like private school junkies. There is an hour yet until the school day ends, but the heavy side exit door swings open, the gusto driven by the slight frame of said schoolboy.

The boy darts away from the school, arms flailing like he is chasing cobwebs off himself. Getting away from the building. No one comes to reel him in. He goes onto the sidewalk, outside the preposterous decorative fencing, and tears at his preposterous uniform. Off comes the tie with an angry whip, fisted angrily in his hands. The first three buttons of the shirt are undone. More squirming. Shaking like a wet dog, curls thrown amuck.

Funny.

Micky sits across the street outside a café, smoking clouds to fill the sky. The kid looks across the street at him. Fiendish looking fellow. _Weirdo._ Micky stabs out his cigarette, exhaling on a smile. He lights another. The kid walks off.

It's Tuesday. Micky sells two hundred pounds of cocaine to too many kids. One is stupid enough. Business is a cruel word.

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><p>Two weeks later, on a Tuesday again, the squirming boy cuts across the street to him, removing his tie on the way. Micky waits, tapping his cigarette ash into an empty cup. His sags against the table, swagger splayed out in his confidently opened legs and tilted head.<p>

The kid's face is round with baby fat despite his towering height. His eyes arc up under the construction of skyscraper cheekbones. A man trying to bloom from a boy. Pretty. Sort of like a newly printed book. But he lacked the test of durability all classics carried.

"Your name is Micky Smith. Originally Michael Smith. Changed upon adulthood, not long after your parents disowned you. You were expelled from Centington three years ago at the beginning of your final year for drug possession. The school chose not to involve police so as not to besmirch their name. Your parents promptly dismissed you. Well, your father. You've recently had lunch with your mother. You sell a variety of drugs, mainly cocaine. Your most important client within the school is the football star, Mathens. He doesn't know his girlfriend trades sex with you for drugs. I do."

Micky clucks his tongue. It tingled. Probably from smoking.

"Nothing I didn't know there."

The boy lickshis lips and Micky reclines, unconcerned. Really now. Micky doesn't worry. He sees where this was going.

"Get me some." There we are.

Micky slides up from his feet and into the kid's personal bubble. Having done growing, he runs eye-level with the kid who looked to have another few inches left to room into.

"What's your name, kid?" His question carries the smell of cigarettes.

"Sherlock Holmes," was the response, each consonant clipped and enunciated. Big weird name. Sherlock levies it before him like a shield, one he expects to be batted away.

Micky gives him a cheeky empty smile and presses something into his hand. Sherlock jerks away, making room to investigate. It is a mostly empty carton of cigarettes. Micky is already walking away when he looks up.

"Alright, Sherlock. Here's a gift," Micky says, looking over his shoulder. "You stay and school and be a good lad. Come to me when you're older. Give it a few years till you're good and sad."

Micky Smith turns down the would-be client. He walks away from Sherlock, trying to do a little justice in the world. God, that kid looks knocked down. He hopes someone would find him and fix him.


	4. The First Blogger

Hello readers. This chapter is a bit different. Just messing around with style and what not. Fair warning, there is attempted rape in this chapter. It's not graphic, but read at your own discretion. The F word happens.

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><p>Nigel's Time at Oxford - A Personal Blog.<p>

**Day 1:**

I've moved in alright. There's a meet-and-greet for the floor in a bit. Have yet to meet the room mate.

**Day 3:**

I know that as I type this I should alter my topic to the school. To the vast green courtyard of extensive grooming. Or the noble English architecture romanticized by all. I should delight in the revelry of the first day of my higher education. Mount the walls of prestige afforded to me by my parents and, dreamy eyed, plot the points of my coming success by the seminars and lectures ahead of me.

No. I cannot though. I imagine I'll look back at this journal and not remember anything but him. Now my toes are wiggling against the cold wood flooring. I won't remember this, the press of my bare feet against the floor, my toes curling into the looping wires of my computer tower. But I'll remember Sherlock Holmes.

**Day 4:**

I had only seen him for a brief time last evening. Our room, while accommodating, is not particularly large. There are bunk beds. He has top. The sheets have been made for four days and, by my own observation, have yet to be slept in.

When he came in the first time it was to retriever his phone charger and fish about his desk drawer for a loose fag. He hastily started puffing up, honestly not noticing my presence. Or at least so I thought. I finally broke through to him after several loud throaty attempts to gain his attention. He fixed me dead with preternatural eyes.

I don't remember why or how, but he told me I was gay. That this did not bother him. That I should expect nothing.

**Day 5:**

I am not gay.

**Day 13:**

I have made friends. I'm not sure if I should be proud of this because it is not a particularly difficult feet. I'm charming enough. Handsome enough. Perhaps I preen under this fact because Sherlock has no friends. He's the most isolated individual I've ever met.

He's both obtrusive and vacant at the same time. He's rarely in the room. His side is immaculate. But every time I wake up, I inhale slowly through my nose, trying to catch some lingering scent of his. I want to know if he's been here. It's not about my privacy. I don't imagine he finds me interesting enough to watch. But I want to smell him.

My favorite times are when I walk in the room after he's returned from the shower. The combination of damp towel, french-milled soap and ever-present tone of male sex that sticks to a wet body. It flavors the room.

This is not good.

**Day 21:**

Sherlock has a date tonight. I think. I came in after dinner to find a smattering of his clothing on top of my bed. Dress shirts and blazers. He was shirtless and staring down at my bed with steepled fingers and a sacrilegiously bowed head. I sat to hide my erection.

He asked something like "What level of formality is fitting for a mutually agreed upon outing initiated by another person in an obvious attempt at forming some level of romantic bond? One that will take place at a coffee shop with live music."

"Do you have a date?"

He seemed flummoxed but then nodded. My mind ran with a possible list of names.

I wanted to sabotage him, mismatch him. But he could walk out wearing teddy-bear pajamas and be fine. I told him to keep it casual. He found a black sweater. I watched him dress.

His abs twist when he puts on a shirt. They pivot on his bony hips. His pale navel turned towards me; my eyes raced down the tight bands of curls that duck into low slung jeans.

"It doesn't matter what you wear," I said around my muted gasp. I have no doubt he is aware of my reaction. This both pleases and bothers me. He might be in my room, but I do not matter.

I'll take what I can get.

"I know it doesn't matter. Most people don't know that though."

**Day 22:**

Sherlock came in about an hour ago. It's a little past two now. I can't sleep. He's gone somewhere. Probably the library. My pulse is still racing.

I heard him and his date outside the door. A bit of talking. Whispering, really. His deep sonorous voice chilling in the darkness. I was on the verge of sleep before I became the unwilling patron to this unwanted display (well, technically they were in the hall). I can't make out the sex of the other person. The whispering is no more than an irritating scratch on my ear drums.

The door jarred back into its frame at one point. There was a groan. It was the worst. If my fantasies had any accuracy, I knew it to be Sherlock. This goes on for about ten minutes maybe. I'm not sure. A laugh. Female?

Sherlock came in and sagged against the door. I listened to his deflation. He scrubbed his hands against his pant legs.

"Nigel."

No point feigning sleep.

"What?"

"I'm going to go take a shower. I'll be leaving the door unlocked. It might be awhile."

"How was the date?"

"Fellatio is messy. I don't think I'd like to repeat that." He just leaves with that.

I ran down to the lower floor to use the shower too.

**Day 26:**

We took the bunk beds apart. His bed is now closer to the door so he can slip out without waking me on the few nights he's in.

**Day 30:**

I think I have a problem.

I don't mean to be simple, but Sherlock is on my mind constantly. It's distracting. I keep thinking about that night.

He must have been getting blown right outside the door. I don't even know who did it to him. Did he reciprocate anything at any point? Did they kiss?

I never see him during the day. I'm too scared to ask around about who he hangs out with. I don't want to be a stalker. I know he'd find out.

I think he lives at the library. Or in a virtual world he summons up from his cell phone.

Does he text her/him?

At least with the anonymity I can imagine it was I.

**Day 47:**

I'm freaking out. Sherlock just came in with Chinese food. Stuff from a few blocks away. He said I've been losing weight and need to stop fussing.

That it didn't matter.

What does that mean?

Got to go! He's coming back with utensils.

**Day 50:**

We haven't spoken much.

**Day 51:**

I think Sherlock broke into the biology lab. There is a suspiciously familiar dissection kit in his desk drawer.

I hate my ethics class.

**Day 55:**

Going to a party. Maybe I can drink the Sherlock thoughts away.

**Day 56:**

There was a party on the floor last night. Sherlock didn't go. I fucked a girl. Sarah, I think. Yes, Sarah. In my statistics class.

I feel a little better. Maybe everything was just frustration.

Except even now I can call to mind Sherlock's sleeping form, all curled in a ball. That's how I find him sleeping. He sleeps with books, hands between pages, marking his spot.

I want to smother him slowly. Cut off all the air in the room so he doesn't move an inch. I'd come back in and watch him all day. Curled in so tight.

**Day 60:**

I've changed the passwords to all of my accounts and computer. I feel paranoid. Dirty, really. I've started taking photos of Sherlock when I can. I'm pretty sure he knows.

**Day 66:**

He knows.

**Day 69:**

I want him.

**Day 80:**

I want to tie him down and fuck him. I know he's never been fucked. He doesn't like sex. Or touching. I don't think he likes being human. I wish he were some twat just so I could fuck him.

He's like an abstract sculpture that wheels about on little wires. A bit taller, a bit grander than the splash colour paintings mounted on the gallery walls.

**Day 88:**

Sarah let me tie her up last night. We aren't really dating or anything, but she likes me. I'm not sure how. I'm only half-aware of anything at any point, my mind constantly screening thoughts of Sherlock. I think I'm going mad.

But if I press Sarah into a pillow, turn her face away and close my eyes, I can pretend the curls I'm pulling are Sherlock's.

**Day 94:**

Sherlock left an open carton of cigarettes on his desk. I licked all around the filters. Right now I bet he's smoking one, breathing in bits of me.

I breathe him in when he walks by.

**Day 117:**

I yelled at Sherlock this morning. I came back from class and the stuff on my desk was messed up. I can't have him going through my stuff. He might find it.

You don't know what it is.

He said he was looking for a pencil.

Does he know? He can't know because it's not here. I've gotten good at hiding things.

**Day 120:**

Are you reading this Sherlock? If you are, we are going to play a game. Too bad you won't know the rules. I won't say Go or Start. But let's just say, you're it.

**Day 133:**

A video recording live:

_Empty dorm room. Empty bed. Unadorned wall._

Run time - 31:16

33: 56

_Door opens from left life of screen. A man carrying a slumped body across his back enters, struggling to the bed. He deposits the body and closes the door after looking outside. The body on the bed lays unmoving in its discarded position._

_The man by the door reclines against it, posing in a cliche. He watches the wilted man on the bed._

_"Sherlock. Sherlock. Sheerrlock," he chirps. The audio register on the video jumps._

_There's a moan from the bed. The standing man sidles over to Sherlock, seemingly intoxicated on his own dominance. He presses his hands into the bed and bounces it. Sherlock's head lulls, faces the camera. Glazed eyes stare forward._

_The man climbs on the bed and pushes Sherlock flat on his back. He straddles his waist and playfully slaps Sherlock's face._

_"Nigel-" Harder slap. It breaks off Sherlock's whine. Nigel presses his hand against Sherlock's mouth and leans in, a frustrated smile on his face._

_"Sshh. Don't talk. C'mon now. You like to fire away with all your words. I want to teach you about silence," he says. He lays his other hand voer his first and presses Sherlock's face back into the pillow. His body jolts in discomfort, one hand scrambling weakly against Nigel's arm, trying to dislodge him._

_Nigel jumps back suddenly and laughs gaily. He runs to the end of the bed and begins undoing Sherlock's shoes, slowly unlacing them, struggling against trembling hands._

_"I'm going to rape you. I drugged you and now I'm going to make you crazy. I'm going to get inside you like you got inside me." He appears to be talking to himself. Sherlock makes a move to sit up, pulling his foot out of its shoe. Nigel leaps over him long legs and tackles him back into the bed._

_Nigel pounds both fists loudly into Sherlock's chest. He coughs. Nigels runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the short strands. He pets Sherlock's face soothingly. He lays down on top of Sherlock, ignoring Sherlock's continued coughs. Nigel uses his legs to spread Sherlock's and stretches Sherlock's arms along with his. He tucks his face under Sherlocks. He faces away from the camera._

_"I'm going to give you something to think about, Sherlock. I'm not sure how much you'll remember. I bet you can't even see straight." He laughs loudly, finding something fun._

_He gets up and goes back to removing Sherlock's shoes. He runs a hand up Sherlock's pant leg._

_Sherlock turns his head and looks at the camera. He rolls his eyes. He sits up. Nigel stumbles back in surprise. Sherlock stretches and pulls his legs up, folding himself. He bends forward, balancing his chin on the tips of his praying hands._

_"Well that was interesting. Thank you Nigel. I have now confirmed that you are a date raping criminal."_

_Nigel is stock still, flabbergasted. "What, how?"_

_"Really, attempting to drug the most observant man alive? You didn't consider your opponent. I must admit, slowly dosing my drinks over a two week period was a nice touch. Add a catalyst and there I go. Your method is the most interesting thing about you. This was an overall unpleasant experience, but I think I'm thankful Lisa Burgh hired me to pursue her rapist. Wasn't expecting to become your victim." Sherlock smiles, amused._

_Nigel quivers and then launches himself at Sherlock. There's a slight scuffle, Sherlock at an immediate disadvantage from his posture. He manages to get his feet under Nigel who is busy choking him. Nigel goes to the ground. Sherlock pounces and pins him, striking his head once against the ground._

_Sherlock gets up, dusting himself off and fixing his clothing. He toes off his one remaining sock and leaves a concussed Nigel on the ground. Sherlock sits in front of the camera._

_"Hello officers. I hope this is enough for you." Sherlock fails to close the camera._

_He begins typing wildly on Nigel's computer. He scrolls and read something._

_"Interesting blog. My, you did like me. I'm such a lucky man. Oh, there's the fellatio incident. Must have made you mad." Sherlock keeps reading, his eyes roving across the screen, shiny gaze reflecting the mirror words of his attacker._

_"Mmm, right you were Nigel. I don't have friends."_

_Sherlock loses interest with the computer and wheels about the room. _

The police come shortly thereafter. The feed cuts off.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading. Tell me what you think. I'm thinking for next chapter we have Sebastian Wilkes and drug use. Mmm, we'll see. I can't wait to get into more adult Sherlock. There'll be more canon characters.<p> 


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